Classic Poem

A SONG.

He's gone the bright way that his honour directs him,
Oh all ye kind powers let me beg you protect him.
He's gone my Dear — and left me here mourning;
But hang these dull thoughts, I'le fancy him returning.
Returning, I'le think the great Hero Victorious,
With joy to my Arms as faithful as Glorious.
Against his bright Eyes, I am sure there's no standing;
He looks like a God, and moves as Commanding.
With a Face so Angelick the Foe will be charmed,
The Conquest were his tho he met 'em disarm'd.
They could not (be sure) of a rational nature,
That wou'd not relent at so moving a feature.
Venus disguis'd he'el be thought by his Beauty;
And spar'd from the sense of a generous Duty.
Yet when I reflect on the Wounded and Dying,
In spight of my Courage it sets me a sighing.
But the resolute brave no danger can stay him,
Tho' I us'd all my Charms and Arts to delay him.
Yet oh ye kind powers you are bound to protect him,
Since he'es gone the bright way that Glory directs him.